


Snippets

by hptriviachamp



Category: The 39 Clues - Various Authors
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-10
Updated: 2019-04-04
Packaged: 2019-08-21 15:45:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 14,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16579451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hptriviachamp/pseuds/hptriviachamp
Summary: In which I write several 39 Clues oneshots. Have any suggestions? Let me know!(Also on fanfiction.net)





	1. Love and Debate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one in which Amy and Ian are that argumentative couple in high school government class

  
After he asks her out on a sunny midwinter day, it's as though everyone expects their behavior to shift on a seismic level.

Sure, they hold hands in public now- the mark of any flourishing high school relationship apart from making out against lockers (she had to agree to draw the line somewhere... however reluctantly), but what more do they want from them?

And it doesn't help in matters (at least, according to everyone but the two of them) that their government class continues to be as contentious as ever. The class itself is made up of a fairly opinionated lot, but throw in Amy's strong opinions, and Ian's desire to argue with her for the sake of arguing ("it's how I show love", he tells her teasingly after one such session, which had rapidly been followed by a frenzied kissing session), and it's always guaranteed to be a blowout. This causes their fellow classmates to doubt whether their relationship even exists after the every dispute on capital punishment or affirmative action. Girls give her sympathetic looks after class, and guys tell him pityingly, "tough luck bro", much to their joint confusion.

But today, Mrs. Wellesley's third period AP US Government and Politics class seems oddly calm, even as everyone in the class holds their breath for the next "debate" to occur.

Now however, she smiles softly when his fingertips brush across her hand and catch hold underneath the table, and she curls her fingers around his, warmth engulfing not only her hand, but somehow her entire body. It's a giddy sensation- she knows it's ridiculous (really, they're just holding hands), but she can't help as her lips curl upwards in a full-fledged grin. And what truly completes her already overflowing cup of delight is when she turns slightly to see a similarly (at least, she assumes) dopey grin adorning his face.

"... and based on this, do we think that the electoral college has its merits, or is it merely a safety net that has failed to do its duty?" Mrs. Wellesley finishes her spiel and looks expectantly at her class.

It's as though their bubble has been burst in one clear shot- their clasped hands break apart in an instant, shooting into the air like twin missiles, and in the process, they both accidentally knock elbows against each other- painfully hard.

"Shit!" He winces, rubbing at the point of contact on his arm.

She's quieter, but far less considerate in her word choice: " _Fuck_ ," she hisses, mirroring his actions as the whole class bursts into laughter.

Mrs. Wellesley sighs a long-suffering sigh, even though her eyes twinkle at the sight of the couple and her two favorite students.

"Let's just save ourselves the trouble and have Ian and Amy go at it at the same time, shall we?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! My name is hptriviachamp. I've been writing on fanfiction.net for some time now, and wanted to get writing on AO3 as well, so this series of snippets is also on fanfiction.net (https://www.fanfiction.net/u/6116923/hptriviachamp), as well as several others, if anyone is interested.
> 
> This is just a series of snippets I'm doing because I really want to get writing again, and if anyone has headcanons of any sort, let me know! I just might write them.


	2. we were meant to break

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one when Ian and Sinead are secretly hooking up

She sneaks into his condo in the night.

He's not exactly sure why there's any need to "sneak" at this point- after all, they are grown adults and they both have their own apartments (although, until about two weeks ago, she had a roommate)- but she finds it amusing, and who is he to deny her these little pleasures?

She doesn't feeling like beating around the bush tonight, apparently, her mouth seeking his hungrily almost as soon as the door closes behind them.

"Someone's eager," he comments, nipping at her lower lip as she throws her arms around him in an effort to hold on as they make their way to his bedroom.

"You wouldn't believe the week I've had," she sighs dramatically as she collapses onto the bed, him following her shortly.

"Frustrated?" He chuckles lowly.

She doesn't reply, instead making a loud noise of contentment as he brushes his lips against that sensitive spot at the base of her throat.

"I found a roommate, by the way."

At this point, he's already removed her shirt and bra, and is trying to focus his attention on anywhere- anything but her potential roommate.

"Oh really?"

"Well," she amends herself, "more like my parents did."

"Love," he groans, nuzzling his face against her pale, freckled shoulder, "as much as I like your parents, I'd really rather not talk about them now."

She only sighs loudly and tugs him up by the collar so that she can get his shirt off faster.

"Then let's talk about the girl that's moving in this weekend without me having even met her."

"Hang on," he pulls away, his concern overruling his desire for a moment, and says, "how is this even happening?"

"Her name is Amy. She's a distant cousin of mine," she rolls her eyes, although the lack of visual concentration does not hamper her ability to unbutton his shirt with no-so-surprising dexterity. "We used to meet a lot when we were younger- her family was the biggest bunch of WASPs I'd ever seen."

She says it in a light tone, but he pulls away for a moment to examine her- the way her forehead crinkles tells him that something about this is bothering her, but one does not interrupt coitus (or whatever it's called before that- he makes a note to ask her next time) to discuss one's questionable roommate situation.

So instead-

"Aren't you a WASP yourself?"

She roughly shoves the oxford over his shoulders and he shrugs the shirt off.

"WASC- at least we had the balls to remain Catholic," she corrects him breathlessly, flipping them and straddling his thighs and cupping his face before leaning in for a long, leisurely kiss, and all is forgotten.

He always did enjoy her little facts.


	3. The Heir to a Single Coffee Shop in Cambridge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one in which Amy is a barista, and Ian is a slightly irritated customer

After opening three wildly successful restaurants specializing in haute Irish cuisine (yes, believe it or not, it _can_ be done), Hope Cahill had decided to settle down by working on her pet idea: opening a little coffee shop.

This particular one was on the Main Street in Cambridge, Massachusetts, mere blocks away from the Harvard campus, and thus its main clientele was a bunch of caffeine-deprived students at all hours of the day and night. That is what led to its name, which was universally heralded as most fitting: _Study Break_.

It's on a sticky evening in late May that Amy finds herself working the counter of her mom's coffee shop. Her boss, Sinead, is manning the counter with her, and so is newcomer Cara who, like Amy, is a local who only works in the summers for extra cash.

It's nearly closing time, and Sinead is about to go out back when one lone customer makes his way in. Amy happens to be scrubbing the espresso machine, and doesn't see the said customer, but she figures she'll probably have to help him, what with the way Sinead starts to prod her enthusiastically.

"Amy," Sinead whispers, "at your five o'clock, it's this cute guy who always orders-" she shudders dramatically, "-tea."

"So what?" Amy whispers, not turning immediately. "I like tea."

"Yeah, but no one comes to a coffee shop to get- oh never mind that!" Sinead says, exasperated. "Can you handle him? I need to do inventory for the night. Cara can help you."

"Sure," Amy nods. Sinead proceeds to head off into the back room, and Amy turns around.

When she first sees him, she allows her eyes to widen a fraction of an inch, because someone like that _definitely_ deserves an extra moment of appreciation.

Oh wow he _is_ as cute as Sinead promised. The usual slightly-rumpled college student look seems to have been lost on him, because his slacks seem perfectly pressed and his shirt is made from some sort of material that screams "expensive".

And he's pretty damn good-looking himself- all kinds of tall, dark, and handsome with the devastating addition of silver specs perched on his nose that give him a rather worldly air.

"Hi," she says peppily (her mother has trained her well), "what can I get for you today?"

"Tea. Darjeeling. Black."

Well.

He manages to inject an amazing amount of dismissiveness into three words, which is only exacerbated by the fact that it's said in an extraordinarily posh accent, a la _Downton Abbey_ or _My Fair Lady_.

(She knows this because she's watched pretty much everything in the genre).

Whatever, Amy isn't about to school a paying customer in manners, so she simply smiles and tells him that it will be ready in a few minutes. He merely nods and slinks away to wait by the cash register.

"Cara," she calls to their new barista, "can you make darjeeling?"

"Milk and sugar?" She calls back,

"Black."

Amy lolls around, having nothing better to do while the tea is being made, and the guy goes back to his table.

"I'm headed out Amy!" Cara tells her a few minutes later, sliding the single, freshly-brewed cup of tea towards her.

"Bye Cara, see you Wednesday."

And with that, Amy's left alone to give the guy his tea (which he takes from her unsmilingly), and then begin to close up the shop.

She has only begun to clear out the pastry case when she hears a loud and pointed "ahem". She looks up.

It's the cute customer.

And he does _not_ look happy.

"Hi," she says, plastering on her "customer service" smile, "can I help you?"

"Yes, your tea is not the ideal temperature," he says, and Amy wonders how he can say so with a straight face, when she herself nearly bursts out laughing.

"I had no idea there was," she says, only just managing to contain her giggles.

"Well," he says a little huffily, raking a hand through his raven hair, "black tea is best between 82 and 100 degrees centigrade-"

Does she know this? Yes. She isn't culinary genius Hope Cahill's daughter for nothing.

But is she about to tell him this?

No.

"Um, I hate to break it to you, but this is America," she says instead. "We don't do metric here."

"One of the many shortcomings of this country," he mutters, which Amy chooses to ignore.

"I could reheat it?" She suggests, but at the look on his face (horror), she hastily adds, "or I'll just remake it. On the house."

He nods, and to her annoyance, he chooses to hang around near the counter, instead of going back to his seat."

The kettle is still heating when he speaks, entirely voluntarily, much to her surprise.

"I haven't seen you here before," he says suddenly, emphasizing the word "you" in a way Amy's not sure what to make of.

"I only work here in the summers. My mom owns this place," she replies, wondering why she feels the need to justify herself by indirectly asserting her claim over this place.

"Ah," he says, his brows raising a fraction of an inch before he adds a damning, "how _quaint_."

Okay, now this is personal- she'll show him " _quaint"_ , whatever that's supposed to mean.

"Yes," she says as grandly as she can while still maintaining a sarcastic undertone, "I am the heir to a coffee shop in Cambridge." She then adds in a snarky tone, "let me guess, you have an ancestral estate waiting for you back in the motherland?"

He shifts uncomfortably at that, and Amy's eyes widen and she bursts into laughter. "Oh my God, you are the heir to some ancestral estate! I should have known. You probably attended public school, did rowing or rugby, went to Oxbridge- wait," she mock-frowns, "why aren't you in Oxford or Cambridge so that your stereotype can be complete?"

He _did_ insult her- now she's totally allowed to have some fun at his expense.

And now, the shift of emotions across his face is truly amusing to watch: the confusion, the annoyance, and finally, righteous indignation.

"If you must know," he says tightly, "I found Harvard's law program to be superior."

"I know," Amy nods, mimicking his stiffness, "I do too."

The look on his face now is completely priceless. Serves him right, Amy thinks, for assuming she is a girl working at a dead-end job in a coffee shop and nothing more.

"You go to Harvard?"

"What?" She asks with a defiant jerk of her chin, "you thought girls who work here obviously can't afford to attend?"

"No," he says defensively, "it's just…" his face is now tinged with something that looks remarkably like a blush, "the law program's students are fairly numbered, and I would have definitely remembered remembered someone like you."

Wait, did he just try a line on her?

"I'm not actually in the program yet," Amy admits somewhat reluctantly, still slightly confused about what his intention was when he said that, "but I'm doing my undergrad in the Kennedy School, and I'm definitely applying to Harvard Law after I graduate."

"Oh," is all he can say, and she feels an uncharacteristically savage course of pleasure rush through her veins for having defeated a law student in the fine art of debate…. and okay, maybe the pleasure may be due to something else as well.

For the next few minutes, they stand around in silence (that is not altogether too uncomfortable), until-

"Listen," Amy says, suddenly taking pity on the poor guy for leading him around in circles (to be fair, she _was_ a political science major- that's what she was trained to do). She leans in conspiratorially and whispers, "the tea here is absolutely shit."

"Er... I don't think you're supposed to tell customers that...?" He trails off dubiously.

"It's true, though," she shrugs, "but there is a really good tea place in Somerville near Tufts. I could give you the address?"

"That would be lovely," he says quickly- too quickly- and he is definitely blushing now. She resists the urge to tease him some more, but mostly because she suddenly feels a bit warm herself, as though it got about twenty degrees (Fahrenheit, thank you very much) hotter in here.

Instead, she gives him his freshly-brewed tea, and he murmurs his thanks, smiling the first real smile she's seen since she's met him.

"I don't suppose you'd like to... go with me?" He says, and then adds hastily, "when you're not working, of course."

She looks consideringly at him for a moment, and she notes how he's fidgeting with his left cuff, even as his gaze is unwavering. She doesn't _do_ dates if she's just met the guy, but this time… this time it feels different. "Well," she says slowly, "it would be great if I got your name first."

Now, he's full out grinning, and there's this dimple on his left cheek, and she can see the ways his amber eyes downright _shine._ It makes him look… good. Like the sort of good Amy suddenly wants to explore more, figure out more ways to make him smile-

"It's Ian," he says.

She grabs the styrofoam cup his tea is in, much to his confusion, and swipes a lone marker on the counter and scribbles something on the cup.

"Is that supposed to be some sort of answer?" He quips, and she only hands the cup back to him.

His eyes then widen and he chuckles at her name and number which she's left on his cup.

"I'll call you then- Amy," he- Ian- says, testing out her name.

"Looking forward to it, Ian," Amy says, trying to (unsuccessfully) channel the flirty emoji on her phone, and he merely winks at her (well, he nailed _that_ emoji) and leaves the shop with his tea.

It's with this newfound jubilation that she practically bounces into the backroom where Sinead is working the grinder.

"Did you settle things with that guy?" Sinead asks absently, focusing on the coffee beans.

"I think," Amy says with a slow smile, "I just got a date."


	4. we were meant to break II

The thing is, Sinead Starling never gets jealous.

Jealousy is for the weak, the insecure, those who have something to loose, and must be perpetually worried about it.

But it's hard not to be jealous of Amy Cahill- perfect Amy Cahill who had studied literature in Harvard (who gets into Harvard to study literature? Well, Sinead thinks a little bitterly, being a legacy student with a trust fund fit for a Kennedy certainly has its benefits).

She's sweet too, and unfailingly humble and kind.

It's not that Sinead can't be kind; She is- but to only those who deserve it. And it's not that she can't be humble either, but her brand of humbleness is derived from a lifetime of trying to better herself, to rise herself from the circumstances she was born into, while never forgetting where she came from.

But Amy… she is something else.

And the worst part is, Sinead _likes_ her.

Amy's overall niceness means Sinead feels free to be the snarky, sarcastic one while Amy balances her out. And having Amy as a roommate has its perks too: while Amy can't cook for her life (that's Sinead's job), she does make up for it with an unending array of home-baked goods. Plus, she does more than her share of the chores because she admits that she feels guilty for moving in without asking her first.

Sinead doesn't bother to point out that her parents technically own this little apartment, and have the final say in anything that goes on here.

One afternoon, Ian calls Sinead to ask if she wants to go to a new exhibit at the Breuer, and so she set about trying to figure out what to wear on a (not) date, while Amy veges out on the couch in sweats, a large, half-devoured pie from Joe's in front of her.

Just then, she hears the buzzer from the front, and she curses, frantically trying to shove a bracelet onto her wrist in an effort to look at least semi-decent.

"Do you want me to get it?" Amy calls from the sitting room.

"Sure!" Sinead replies from where she is struggling to zip the back of her dress. She figures her roommate will have to meet her… whatever he is, at some point or another.

Just then, she successfully gets the zip unstuck, and triumphantly, she grabs a clutch and make her way to the front door in time to see Amy open the door, and for Ian to realize that the person at the door is _not_ Sinead.

In that moment, it's like everything goes still, and she could probably hear a pin drop if she ever bothered to keep those around.

Ian looks like- well, for lack of better simile- a deer caught in the headlights. And Sinead doesn't even want to get started on Amy, who's looking increasingly like a tomato.

"Hi," she finally says. "I'm Amy, the new roommate." She seems to have remembered her manners (not that she ever seems to completely forget them to begin with), and extends a hand towards him.

He takes it.

"I'm Ian," he says, never taking his eyes off of her, "Sinead's… friend."

And Sinead doesn't say anything, instead silently wondering how it isn't fucking _criminal_ the amount of sexual tension that can occur in a _handshake_.

(It's more than she thinks she's ever possessed in her entire body).

And is it possible to actually _feel_ the sheer weight of those little words?

She's not sure, but she sure as hell feels something pass in between them in that moment. She sees the way her gaze softens and his lingers a touch longer-

And suddenly, she knows.

Sinead's never been a big fan of reading someone's palm or tarot cards or any of that spiritual nonsense, but it's as though she's had a premonition now, and she can _see_ where this will all go. A few more chance run-ins in her apartment, coffee shop dates where they will discover their mutual love of books and art and all that cultured shit she never bothers to keep up with, dinner dates in posh restaurants and picnic lunches in Central Park, him walking her back to her apartment, doorstep kisses and more inside _his_ apartment-

And you know what happens after that.

Sinead Starling never gets jealous, and she certainly won't get jealous over something- someone- she never had to begin with.

They were, after all, made to break.

She steps forward to greet Ian anyway.


	5. the stuff of which fairytales are not made

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one in which Grace and Amy's parents are alive and thus the events of the first- or following- series that would have started after Grace's funeral have not happened, and Amy and Ian are friends… and maybe something more

They meet at midnight.

Perhaps that's too dramatic. By "meet", Amy supposes there had been some untold understanding between them that they run into each other entirely by accident on the front porch of Grace's Attleboro mansion at exactly 11:53 PM.

She may be wearing a cardigan and wellies (summer nights in Massachusetts can get chilly), and he may be wearing a robe, but here they are.

"I couldn't sleep," he says, barely eying her choice of attire, where once upon a time, it definitely would have earned some snarky little comment from him.

"Neither could I."

He's leaning over the porch, looking out into the darkness beyond, and she walks over to join him, the silence lasting only a few moments, before-

"What are you doing here?"

He's too intelligent to not understand her real meaning.

"I can't visit the colonies to see my family?" He quips wryly, and she rolls her eyes.

Once upon a time, she would have scolded him for referring to America as "the colonies", proud little patriot that she was, and simultaneously shuddered for being referred to as his family, a title that would make their relationship borderline incestuous.

But now-

"No," she says flatly.

He sighs heavily. "I'm headed to New York. I'm sure you can guess the purpose. Grace all but cornered me about it after dinner."

So Grace knew, and yet, she had invited him to stay over. Amy shakes her head. If she had to spend time guessing exactly what game the Cahill matriarch was playing, it would take an eternity to figure it out.

So she says instead, "I thought we had a deal."

"It's just a trial," he says, looking at her beseechingly- could it be that he feels guilty about it? "My mother thinks giving me a taste of the clue hunt will make me want to join the search."

"Funny, that's what Grace told me last year during the holidays," she says, wondering if what she's admitting will make him think less of her.

But no. To his credit, his expression barely changes, and he merely looks at her with a sort of resignation. "Where did you go?"

"Switzerland."

"So we both broke our promises then."

"It was going to happen eventually."

"I know."

Silence, then-

"If you're going to New York, why did you come here?"

His lips twist into painful smile. "Come now, Cahill. Do you really want me to spell it out?"

"That would be great, thanks."

"I came here," he says, advancing a few steps towards her, "to find out about the clue you found in Switzerland."

His figure looks like a looming shadow blocking the moonlight, and it makes her breath catch in her throat.

"Really?" She mirrors his movements, stepping forward as well, holding her gaze steady even as his begins to waver.

"No," he admits, his voice suddenly hoarse and so _tired_. "I came here to see you."

"Because time's almost up." It's not a question, the way she says it, but it's a statement.

It's the truth.

A truth that weighs heavily on them, far more than it should on two twenty-one year olds.

"My family is pressuring me to join the hunt formally as soon as I graduate. I suppose it's the same for you?" He asks.

"Yeah."

That one word- the moment it leaves the tip of her tongue, something- _everything_ \- changes.

Suddenly, the weariness from the night- indeed, from this whole summer- evaporates, seemingly into thin air, and it leaves a cloud of latent heat and want that she doesn't know quite what to make of, except that she wants… something.

Somewhere inside the house, she hears the old cuckoo clock go off, twelve little chimes ringing, echoing.

"And what are you going to-" he begins, but she cuts him off.

"I don't want to talk about that," she mutters, closing the last few inches between them with a sort of eleventh-hour fervor, as if she's racing against time itself. She grasps the front of his robe with both hands, and pulls him down to her before kissing him hard, and he responds in kind, all tongue and teeth, desperation and desire- the sort of kiss that should be what fairytales are made of, and simultaneously the sort of kiss people have as a precursor to hooking up in a club bathroom.

She's always enjoyed contradictions.

She's always enjoyed him, far more than she ever should have let herself, but it's too late now.

"You know what I mean, don't you?" She rasps, breaking away from him for a mere moment, searching his eyes for the confirmation of what they both know to be inevitable, and he rests his forehead against hers.

"I do."

And in that second before his lips descend on hers, the moonlight catches the golden glint in his eye, and she knows everything is lost.

"I don't want to be a cliché," he says when they finally pull away from their tangled embrace. His breathing is ragged and he has a genuine look of concern on his face that makes her want to laugh. She sees that his lips look red and bitten- _good_.

"Warring families _are_ rather trite," she muses breathlessly.

"Not to mention my father and your mother having once been in some sort of relationship."

"And to think I was trying to delay the inevitable incest remark."

He laughs out loud at that, throwing his head back and she can't help but join in, her throaty laughter melding with his low chuckles.

"Don't worry," she says some time later with a small smile, "I'm not interested in becoming some kind of Romeo and Juliet 2.0."

"And I'm not Prince Charming anymore than you're Cinderella," he says, looking at her fondly. Their dialogue has taken a turn for the nonsensical, but Amy can't help but feel that there is some meaning to all of this… perhaps it's the fact that she's a literature major who's used to overanalyzing every text, or maybe it's that when it comes to Ian, everything means something.

"Thanks," she snorts. "Is it the lack of gown, or the pumpkin coach?"

_Or is it the fact that we may never have a 'happily ever after'?_

"What I'm trying to tell you is…" he trails off with a stuttering exhale, "I don't know where this will go. I don't know whether this will work-"

"-Are you trying to scare me off," she interrupts irritably, "or are you trying to warn me against any emotional attachment?"

"Well," he frowns, "I suppose the-"

"-Because if the former, then too late," she goes on, "and if the latter, what makes you think _you_ won't be the one that gets too attached?" She punctuates the remark with a defiant jerk of her chin.

He studies her for a moment, as if he doesn't know quite what to make of her- what she's just said.

"In all those stories that you study in Harvard," he says slowly, "it's never the man, is it?"

"But I'm not a princess," she reminds him, "and this is real life."

He looks down at her with something akin to awe, a sort of joy that flickers across his features suddenly, rendering it harshly beautiful.

"This is real life..." he echoes softly. "This is real... oh God, this is real, isn't it?"

"Were you hoping to wake up from a nightmare?" She asks impishly.

"No," he says, finally exasperated, "I-" he gestures between them, "us."

Suddenly, silence reigns supreme, and for the first time in the night, they both are at a loss for words. Amy tries to listen to the mindless chirping of the crickets, but that word- _real_... it repeats in her head far more than she wants it to.

"Are you scared?"

She's whispering, but she swears the whole world can hear it in that moment, the three private words she has longed to ask him since he walked through the door this afternoon.

"Yes."

Her hand catches his and she grasps it, running her thumb over his knuckles in a comforting motion.

"Me too."


	6. The Americans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one in which Amy is the policy advisor to the American ambassador to the United Kingdom, and Jake is a reporter- sequel to "You Will Never Know How Much I Love You"

"A Jack Daniels," a voice- an irritatingly familiar voice (and not just because of the New York accent)- says next to her, "and another one of what she's having."

At that, Amy's head jerks up. She had purposely found an obscure pub far away from the posh bars in Kensington and Mayfair she and her work colleagues frequented, and yet-

 _Of course_ it has to be him.

"What are you doing here, Rosenbloom?" She asks wearily, eying the relaxed state of his attire- tie loosened, top button undone, and sleeves rolled up to reveal oddly tanned forearms for someone in London in October.

All of this does nothing to assure her she may or may not be in for another journalistic ambush.

"Can't a man enjoy a drink after a long week?" He says smoothly.

"Not if said man is pretty much a nosy tabloid reporter."

"Hey," he says, mock-affronted, "that's respected journalist from the New York Times to you."

"Right," she simply snorts, but doesn't refuse the free drink when the bartender returns with his whiskey, and a scotch and soda for her.

She takes a long, grateful sip, very aware that Rosenbloom is still watching her. At least he isn't saying anything.

 _Thank God for small mercies_ , Amy internally rolls her eyes. In the past few months since she's met him, Jake Rosenbloom has become a thorn on her side, and well, pretty much a thorn on the side of anyone vaguely in the political field here in London. He's smart, knows how to follow a lead, and can sniff blood in the water better than sharks.

 _And_ his official job title is "diplomatic correspondent" (something about reporting on the affairs in Europe and why they should matter to Times readers back in America), which means she sees a lot more of him than she really should.

"Long week?" He says after giving her just enough time to inhale her drink, and set the glass down onto the bartop with a loud, but satisfying _clunk_.

"And here I thought you weren't going to talk," Amy mutters to herself before turning to face him with a fake smile plastered onto her face. "What the hell do you really want?"

He raises his hands in a defensive gesture. "As I've said already, I'm just having a drink. It really _has_ been a long week, you know," he adds with a meaningful look at her.

"Because of- what are they calling it now? Bonfire-gate?" Amy asks skeptically.

"Yes," he says, looking far more proud than he should have any right to, for being affiliated with the intrepid reporter who found out that the current Prime Minister may or may not have participated in a ritual in which he had to dance around a bonfire naked in order to gain access to an elite secret society during his Oxford days.

"Is this what you people really consider news these days?" Amy says derisively.

"The people have a right to know," he only replies with a smug smile that makes her want to throttle him.

"That the Prime Minister participated in what is equivalent to a frat rush week thirty years ago?"

"No, the sheer idiocy and privilege of this country's upper class- _that's_ what the people have a right to know," he elaborates earnestly, "and local girls who were invited may have even gotten burned as a result-"

"Since when did you care about the women in a news story?" Amy interrupts acidly, her eyes narrowed, "Because if you did, you certainly wouldn't have blackmailed me about one a few months ago."

To his credit, he barely blinks at the attack she's just launched on him.

And if there's one thing Jake Rosenbloom is good at, it's fighting back when he's been cornered.

"It was never intended as blackmail," he argues, "I just warned you that someone had the story, and that it could break if it was verified-"

"Yeah right," Amy fires back, "I know your newspaper, and probably you too, are completely biased against administration back home, so any cheap dig you can take-"

"-It was just a warning," he says angrily, and Amy knows she's hit a sore spot with him. People like Jake have very little loyalty, but when their own journalistic integrity is in question, they are willing to defend themselves with whatever it takes.

"... And _something_ must have worked when I warned you," he continues heatedly, "because my colleague never found anything to verify what was happening, so you obviously started thinking with your head and not your libido, and broke it off with him!"

Her eyes flash dangerously at the insinuations he is making without knowing a damn about the truth.

"How dare you," she hisses. "How dare you judge me without knowing all the facts? You have no right-"

"Then tell me what happened," he snaps back, obviously not meaning it, because who in their right mind would tell someone like him an exclusive piece of news that could potentially disrupt the politics of an entire country?

"Fine."

Well, it looks like she's finally rendered him dumbstruck.

"Really?"

"But this is off the record entirely," Amy hastily adds, trying to control this situation, even though it's gone completely out of hand, and it's (mostly) her fault.

"Of course it is," he replies, the smirk that seems to be permanently etched on his face slowly coming back, even as the shock remains.

"And I am under no obligation to tell you this, but I'm doing so because I want to get the record straight."

"Understood," he nods, although he continues to look at her dubiously. She inhales deeply, still wondering why she about to share this information with a journalist of all people, even if it's off the record.

"I broke it off with him three months ago."

"What?" Rosenbloom suddenly looks a lot more embarrassed, apologetic- and even a little bemused.

"Yeah." She suddenly feels resigned, and so _tired_. It's as though she's reliving those first torturous weeks after that final confrontation between her and Ian. "I could barely admit to myself that it had happened at the time, let alone to a reporter."

"So it did happen then- the affair?" He asks her, astounded, and she eyes him incredulously.

"I thought you said that the colleague who told you about this had evidence."

"I thought it was just a series of coincidences," he says honestly, and Amy doesn't know whether to laugh or cry at how ridiculous he sounds for a man in such a cynical profession.

"Is it so hard to believe I slept with a married government minister who was also my college professor for nearly a decade?"

"I- I mean… " he truly seems at a loss of words (well, when she puts it like that, who wouldn't?), at least until he blurts out, "but you're _you_."

"What's that supposed to mean?" She asks, almost comically affronted, wondering if it's because she looks so weary and tired, Rosenbloom can barely comprehend her being attractive to anyone, let alone the great Ian Kabra.

But he only sighs. "You're smart, Cahill- and this isn't flattery," he adds pointedly when she opens her mouth. "Your record speaks for itself: Harvard, London School of Economics, rising to become the current ambassador's policy advisor. You're good at what you do, and you definitely have a promising career ahead of you. It's just weird to think that out of all the people-"

"- _I'd_ be the one to have an affair?" She finishes bitterly.

"Something like that," he shrugs.

"Well if it helps your insane idealization of me, the last year was like hell, and I thought about getting out more than once because it felt more wrong by the day."

"Why couldn't you?"

"I loved him too much," she says simply, amazed that she can bring herself to say the words with absolutely no emotion, "and he was… magnetic."

 _Magnetic…_ that hardly seems to cover what it was like to be in an affair with Ian Kabra. He was charismatic, brilliant and some days, Amy hardly knew whether she was attracted to his body or his mind (or perhaps an intoxicating combination of both), and somehow, he had found her to be his _equal_.

At least, she had thought he did.

For the next few minutes, they sit in silence, Amy pondering on how strange a course her life could take, so that she was confiding in a man she had long considered to be something of an enemy.

But Jake never had. It suddenly dawns on Amy that perhaps he had never meant to harm her when he had tipped her off- perhaps he had done it out of respect for her. Something akin to shame and embarrassment blooms within her, but it never has a chance to fully form, because in that moment, Jake looks up from his drink, and turns to face her directly.

"He's going to vie for the leadership- you do know that, don't you?" He begins quietly. "It could be in five years, it could be in ten, but when he does… are you ready for what will happen when that day comes?"

 _He's going to vie for the leadership_.

She had never thought much about it, but in her heart of hearts, she had always known- men like Ian could never sit still while a series of inept leaders barely controlled the party, and sooner or later, he would make his own bid.

Amy had never believed in fate, but when it came to Ian… she knew it was his destiny, written in the stars as surely as the imminent destruction of their relationship had been.

And as for her own fate… oh, she _certainly_ knows what will happen to women like her.

"You mean, am I ready for reporters stalking me, waiting outside my home and job, having to tell my family about what happened all those years ago, watching as _he_ doesn't get an ounce of blame, while I'm painted as the little whore who seduced her brilliant professor for a good grade, and then stuck with him far longer than she should have?" Her fist bangs on the bartop, seemingly of its own volition, and Jake flinches slightly, but maintains stedfast eye contact with her.

The silence seems to stretch on forever.

"For what it's worth," he finally says, "if it does happen, you don't deserve any of it."

 _When did we ever?_ She wants to scream _,_ to rip her throat raw until all that's left is a mere whisper. _When did we ever deserve the disgust, the ire, the hatred of the world itself? Do you not see what has become of me- can you not see the injustice? Can you-_

"Can I count on your discretion?" She asks instead.

"Yes."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is set in the "You Will Never Know How Much I Love You" universe (check it out if you haven't read that), about 9 years after the second chapter of that story.
> 
> This is also a testament to the #MeToo movement, and in particular, the fact that in so many publicized affairs, the woman gets an unfair amount of blame, even though in many cases, the man is so much more powerful than her (often times her boss) and therefore deserves at least an equal amount of blame. I think the best example of this (in politics) is President Clinton and Monica Lewinsky.


	7. Debunked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Or, the High School AU that's told from the popular girl's point of view

Nobody who is popular says they're popular.

It's one of the infinite unwritten rules in high school, but this one has some merit- at least, Amy Cahill thinks so.

Maybe it's because nobody can really manufacture popularity- ergo, no popular kid will ever know exactly what propelled them to the top of the pack.

She certainly doesn't know when it happened to her. She can point to a vague period of time between sixth and seventh grade; while everybody else grew taller, she grew a personality that was not completely dominated by a fondness for story books and solitude.

Or perhaps it was when she became friends with Jonah Wizard and Hamilton Holt in her freshman year of high school, and with them came all their lackeys and widespread rumors about which one of them she was dating.

(The torrid little whispers certainly didn't detract from her popularity- although they couldn't have been further from the truth; If anything, she was Ham and Jonah's third wheel).

Or maybe it was sophomore year, when she met Ian Kabra, with his posh drawl and amber eyes, and the two of them became an item, thus cementing Amy's status as Queen Bee, with a boyfriend to boot.

All in all, it's been a good run.

And now, it's senior year.

Third period of her fourth day of senior year, to be exact.

She's walking out of AP Micro when Poppy Wentworth decides it would be a good idea to accost her about college applications, the part of senior year Amy has been dreading the most.

A Cliche Debunked: Despite whatever you may see in TV shows about posh New York prep schools, they _do_ have to go through the same drawn-out process as the rest of their peers across the country when it comes to college applications. The only difference is that students in the aforementioned schools tend to have more options.

"I'm working on them," Amy says listlessly in response to Poppy's overly-enthusiastic query, in hopes that she will leave her alone.

No luck.

"Where are you applying- apart from Oxford, of course?"

Amy frowns. This is probably the hundredth time someone's asked her about where she's applying for college, and then automatically gone on to assume that she _wants_ to attend Oxford since her boyfriend, who comes from a long line of Oxford men and women, is a shoe-in for the school.

Amy's family members, on the other hand, have all gone to Harvard, her grandmother is trustee of the university, _and_ they have a wing in the library named for them, and yet no one has assumed that Ian will be following _her_ to Harvard.

Amy opens her mouth to retort that she probably won't even apply to Oxford, but then promptly snaps it shut, before she forces herself to smile.

"Columbia and NYU, _La Sorbonne_ … and Harvard, of course," she adds rather pointedly, at which Poppy flushes, probably internally berating herself for not remembering Amy's own illustrious lineage, whereas Amy had simply wanted to make a point.

There's an awkward silence (Poppy is probably waiting for Amy to ask about what she's going to do next year, but Amy already knows: become a full-time socialite, and maybe have a cushy side-job in daddy's law firm) before she says faux-brightly, "well good luck!" and hurries off, leaving Amy to mull over her college prospects.

It's no secret that Grace wants her to go to her alma mater, but Amy wonders what it would be like to leave everything and jet off to attend _La Sorbonne_ … living in _St-Germain-des-Prés_ the way her mom did during her gap year, shopping in cute little boutiques and visiting art galleries, sipping an _aperitif_ in the same cafes that Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir frequented once upon a time…

How great would that be?

(Of course, there would be the education bit as well, but that's an afterthought).

Just then, Amy is shaken- literally- from her thoughts by someone putting a hand on her shoulder, and saying "hey, Sinead-", and she turns around in confusion.

It's Alice McKenna, one of those quiet girls whose main goal is to get through high school without getting noticed as much as possible. If that's the case, why is she talking to Amy?

Alice's expression morphs into one of horror, having realized that she has mistaken _Amy Cahill_ for someone else.

"I- I'm sorry," she says hastily, nearly tripping over herself to apologize. "I just thought- you look just like-"

"-Who's Sinead?" Amy interrupts with interest.

Alice's eyes nearly bug out of her head. Amy's not entirely sure why- they were lab partners last year; They've talked before.

(And it's not like Amy slacked off or anything- she always did her half of the work, and Alice did her own).

"The new girl," Alice says nervously.

Wait… she's heard that name before. Amy vaguely remembers her grandmother, who is on the board of directors for the school, mentioning a scholarship student whose test scores were over the roof.

"I want to meet her," Amy says impulsively. Why not? She's bored, and is willing to do anything to get college apps out of her mind.

Alice can only nod, and mumble "sure", before wordlessly gesturing for Amy to follow her.

"Do I look a lot like her?" Amy asks as they make their way to the senior hallway, to which Alice can only nod fervently.

Alice comes to an abrupt halt at the water fountain.

"That's her." She points across the busy hall to where a girl is at her locker.

Huh. Amy can see why someone would mistake her for the new girl. Both of them are of a similar build, and they both have the same shade of auburn hair and the same pale skin.

She purposefully strides towards where Sinead is gently placing several textbooks into her bag from her locker. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees a girl notice this, and whisper something into the ear of her friend, who glances their way before excitedly muttering something back.

Another Cliche Debunked: the crowd doesn't have to fall silent and part like the Red Sea wherever Amy goes. All it takes is one little whisper, and soon, the whole school will know Amy Cahill spoke to the new girl whose stock price will increase significantly; Everybody will want a share.

Amy taps the girl on her shoulder.

"Hi," she says pleasantly, "you're Sinead, right?"

"Yup, that's me," the girl in question says with a slightly uncomfortable smile. She's probably had to endure a lot of weird looks and questions in the past three days. "And you are?"

"Amy," she replies, extending a hand. "Amy Cahill."

She takes it. "Nice to meet you."

"You know," Amy says with a genial smile, "I was just told I looked a lot like you, and I had to see if it was true."

"I guess we sort of do...?" Sinead trials off dubiously, her eyes falling onto Amy's outfit: an oversized oxford tucked casually into a pair of linen trousers, and Sperrys- nonchalant, but classy.

Sinead, on the other hand, is wearing a nondescript t-shirt, dark jeans, and flats.

 _She catches on fast at least_ , Amy thinks. Going label-less is the first step to fitting in. The worst thing a person can do is walk in this school with a hoodie that has "Adidas" or "Save the Whales!" stamped across it, or worse. People here don't advertise who they wear- everyone else simply knows.

"I think it's the hair," Amy leans in conspiratorially, "redheads are so rare."

Sinead giggles a little at that. "I guess so. I got tapped on the shoulder like fifty times, and when I turned around, everybody looked so _annoyed_ \- I was beginning to think it was some sort of hazing ritual around here. Alice-" she nods her head towards where Alice is hanging around awkwardly near the water fountain, "-told me that there was a new guy on an academic scholarship last year who was directed to the wrong room every time, and got detention so often that he nearly got kicked out."

Amy winces. It _had_ happened- not that she'd participated since the guy in question was a senior last year, and was tormented mostly by his own classmates. Thankfully, the old guard of popular students has mostly gone off to college, and Amy intends to make sure this year's seniors aren't so jerky to the new kids, the ones on scholarship, or the less affluent ones this year.

At that thought, she looks consideringly at Sinead. She seems pretty cool- sure she's probably smart, fastidious sort, eager to fit in (but not in an obvious way), but there's something more about her… something that sets her apart from scrubs like Alice McKenna, although Amy can't pinpoint exactly what it is.

Besides, she's not about to go all _Emma_ on her, and a new friend is always worth cultivating, something she's learned in the past few years.

(Although to be fair, Evan _could_ use a girlfriend).

"Well, if you stick with me," Amy says boldly, praying that she's not about to be too presumptuous, "I can guarantee that won't happen to you."

She doesn't know what prompts her to say it, but the smile that blooms on Sinead's lips tells her that she's done the right thing. After all, what's the point of being popular if you can't use your powers for good, once in a while?

"Well Amy Cahill," Sinead says slowly, "to quote Rick Blaine, 'I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship." She sticks her hand out, and Amy shakes it with equal mock-solemnity.

"You should meet my boyfriend," Amy grins, "he likes _Casablanca_ way too much as well. Lunch?" She gestures to the cafeteria ahead of them.

Sinead nods. "Let's."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaand I finally updated. This pobably will be a series, because I have Ideas.


	8. The Talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one in which Natalie is dating Dan, and it falls on Ian to give her The Talk

He sees them first- Daniel and Natalie canoodling (is that the best word choice? He’s well aware it makes him sound like a scandalized Grande Dame, but ah well) on the couch in the living room of Attleboro.

They’re giggling, their legs tangled and arms around each other. Natalie leans in to whisper something in Dan’s ear, and Dan’s lips curl slowly upwards in a grin, as he presses a chaste kiss on Natalie’s cheek.

He wants to interrupt, really, he does, but this is the happiest he’s seen Natalie in a long time (not that she should be entirely reliant on The Boy- which is what he’ll be calling Daniel exclusively from now on- for happiness, something else to discuss with her) and he’s not about to take away any of that.

“They’re cute together,” a voice says from behind him, and he doesn’t even bother to turn around, his eyes still transfixed on the sight before him.

Amy comes to stand next to him, watching as Dan rests his head in Natalie’s lap and they continue to watch whatever trashy chick-flick (his weakness as well as hers) they’re currently enjoying.

“Have you given her The Talk yet?”

The question comes out of nowhere, and Ian is supremely unprepared to hear it, and now he really  _ does  _ feel like a scandalized Grande Dame.

“Surely you don’t mean…?” He trails off indignantly, and Amy grins at how uncomfortable he looks.

“I  _ do  _ mean,” she insists in amusement, and as if he needed any further clarification, she adds, “the sex talk.”

Now Ian is spluttering. “I- I- she’s- she can’t- she  _ cannot _ be ready for something like that!”

“Sex, or listening to you describing the mechanics of it?” Amy asks with a cheeky smile.

_ Oh dear God. _

“I’m not going to answer that,” Ian says haughtily, trying to recover some of his bearings. “And besides,” he says sounding more whiny than he should, “why do  _ I  _ have to do it?”

“Who gave you your Talk?”

“My father.” 

It had not been terrible, really, except his father had only lectured him on ensuring that he didn’t get anyone pregnant, especially a potential fortune-hunter that was out to steal the Kabra money. Apart from that, there had not been a whole lot of substance to their conversation.

“And you?” Ian asks.

“Grace,” Amy replies with a secretive smile that makes Ian wonder exactly  _ what _ the late matriarch of the Cahill family told her granddaughter.

Amy clears her throat. “But my point is, neither of them have anybody else to tell them anymore, which means it’s our job now.”

“Does this mean you’ll be speaking to Daniel?”

“Oh yes,” Amy says, a devious gleam in her eye, and he feels mildly comforted that Amy will do an excellent job of making Dan fear for his life, should anything go wrong between him and Natalie.

She then adds more softly. “You need to speak to her, Ian.”

Ian groans. “Fine.”

* * *

  


“Sex.” Ian announces, internally cringing at how he sounds like the opening of a John Oliver monologue (yes, he does enjoy the British comic- it is good to support home-grown talent). “We need to discuss this, now that you and Daniel are apparently snogging  in every room I walk into.”

To her credit, Natalie seems mostly unflapped, as she sits on the edge of the chaise in her room. “I know the mechanics, if that’s what you’re trying to get at,” Natalie says wryly, and Ian’s eyes nearly bug out of his head.

“You mean-” he begin, horrified, but Natalie swiftly cuts him off.

“No,  _ God  _ Ian,” she says indignantly, “what type of slag do you take me for?”

“I know you’re not a slag, Natalie,” he says tightly, “but I would want to be reassured that you were engaging in safe practices, if you were already sexually active.”

Natalie looks at him with some awe. “You really do care,” Natalie marvels “And based on what you just said, you’re not hell-bent upon me not having a boyfriend until I’m forty, or any of that other older-brother nonsense.”

“I’m not an overprotective idiot, you know

“Oh  _ good _ ,” Natalie sighs, flopping back on the couch. “Sophie was telling me how her brother threatened John with a hunting gun in their father’s study, and Henrietta said her dad threatened to but bars on her bedroom window if she snuck out to meet her boyfriend.”

“Don’t get too comfortable,” Ian says dryly, “because there is still more to discuss.”

Now it’s Natalie’s turn to look horrified. “But what else-”

“Protection,” Ian says. “I trust you know your options?”

“Yes,” Natalie sighs and recites, “condom, pill, IUD, implant-”

“-And use a condom every time, until you know for sure that both of you are not carrying any sexually-transmitted infections,” Ian adds, and Natalie nods. “And remain on birth control until, well, the obvious.”

“And finally,” he says, feeling like he’s gotten into the groove of this, “there is the matter of consent. If you feel uncomfortable at any point during sex, you are well within your rights to ask that person to stop, and if he does not, it is rape. If you feel uncomfortable in any situation, do not be coerced to stay. And if-” he breaks off, inhaling, then exhaling, before saying much more softly, “and if you are ever in any trouble, know that I will  _ always  _ be there for you.”

Natalie looks touched. “Thank you,” she says quietly, to which he replies gruffly, “no problem.”

It only lasts for a moment though, because it’s swiftly overtaken by the awkwardness that is permeating the room, and both of them are suddenly eager to get out.

Ian holds the door for Natalie before stepping out of her bedroom, just as Amy and Dan walk out of the room across the hall.

At the disgruntled look on both their faces, Ian and Natalie burst out laughing.


	9. Debunked Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one in which various John Green films are discussed over lunch

There are a lot of things well-meaning, but grossly-uninformed movie producers have gotten wrong about high schools, but funnily enough, when it comes to the cafeteria… they are right on the money.

It really is a clique-y, sticky mess of little groups, delicate alliances, and outright enemies, all held together by a fragile thread, which is the common goal to get through high school relatively unscathed.

And in the back of the cafeteria, at a table in front of floor-to-wall windows that overlook the courtyard, is her friends.

Sinead notices where Amy's gaze lands, and shrinks slightly behind her, overwhelmed at the prospect of meeting all of them, but Amy only gestures for her to follow her to the table.

"Everyone, this is Sinead," Amy announces. "Sinead, this is everyone."

"I don't suppose you're going to tell me who 'everyone' is?" Sinead jokes nervously, eying the occupants, who are staring right back at her.

Okay, so maybe it was a little intimidating for Amy to have Sinead hit with the full force of her friends all at once, but Amy considers this to be Sinead's first test: if she manages to fit in, then she's in.

(If not, Amy is sure Sinead will make a tolerable lab partner).

"Sup, Sinead," Jonah pipes up. "I'm Jonah. You new here?"

"Yeah I am," Sinead says with a weak smile, clearly waiting for the other four well-coiffed teenagers to introduce themselves.

Jonah must sense her anxiety, because he elbows Jake in the gut, which prompts him to speak as well.

"I'm Jake," he says, somehow managing to sound super Bostonian in just those two words.

Next, Cara rolls her eyes at Jake, but gives Sinead a beatific smile. "I'm Cara, and since his mouth is too full of sandwich to speak-" she points at Hamilton, "I'll introduce him for you- that's Hamilton."

"Ah khan sthpeek," Hamilton says indignantly, and Sinead giggles a little at that, before her eyes land on the final member of their little group, waiting expectantly.

"Well, best for last I suppose," Ian drawls, shooting her a quick but lethal smile. "I'm Ian."

"Nice to meet you all," Sinead says shyly, and Amy gestures for her to sit, and she takes a seat next to Ian.

Amy and her friends don't really have a process when it comes to the new kid- no elaborate mind games or whatever the equivalent to rush week is in high school- no, they're much more instinctual. So while the five of them take turns talking to Sinead while subtly inquiring for information, Amy merely watches her.

For one, she notices that Sinead likes to eat all her food separately, meticulously. The coleslaw goes first, and then the burger, and finally the sweet potato fries.

She also notices that her eyes dart around a lot, like she's waiting for someone at the table to abruptly announce "Surprise!" and dump their espresso on her.

(Poor girl. If she thinks that constitutes as a hazing ritual here, then she's probably watched one too many chick-flick).

And of course, she sneaks the requisite number of not-so-covert glances at Ian. That's probably the least surprising thing. Her boyfriend is good-looking, and of course, she's welcomed to stare- Amy's not _that_ proprietary.

And besides, Amy has a feeling that Sinead is one of those girls who are doomed to record every single sordid crush in their diaries, and nothing more.

In short, she'll never make a move.

"So Ian," Sinead says suddenly, "Amy told me you like _Casablanca_ \- I had no idea people around here liked old movies."

It's not the best conversation opener, but she's already proved Amy wrong.

 _Interesting_.

Jake turns to Ian and asks, "dude, isn't that a chick-flick?"

From Sinead, offended: "Hey, don't lump it in with movies like _The Notebook_!"

From Cara, amused: "I think that's an insult to _The Notebook_."

From Jonah, who's butting in entirely: "I always liked _Dear John_ better- Channing Tatum, you know."

From Hamilton, nodding fervently: "Agreed".

From Jonah, really getting into it: "Ryan Gosling is _so_ overrated-"

From Ian, who sniffs indignantly and announces: "-I am secure enough in my masculinity to admit that I like classics like _Casablanca_."

From Amy, intent on exposing Ian anyway: "His first crush was Liz Taylor."

From Hamilton, who crows: "EXPOSED."

From Ian, scowling: "Why do you have to sell me out like that?"

From Jonah, patting Ian's back: "It be like that sometimes."

From Ian, continuing to scowl: "Don't quote memes at me-"

From Amy, jokingly: "-You know what memes are?"

From Jake: "Is Liz Taylor the one with the big-" he gestures with both his hands to his chestal area.

From Sinead, somehow understanding exactly whom Jake is referring to: "That's Liz Hurley, I think."

From Jake, as somewhat of an afterthought: "She's hot".

From Cara, a beat later: "Yeah…"

Just then, the bell (or more like the loud, but soothing new-age jazz their principal prefers) rings, and everyone makes their way out of the room in an orderly fashion (What do you expect? These kids have been attending etiquette classes since they were in organic cloth diapers).

Ian, Jonah, and Jake quickly leave, citing an extremely strict English teacher.

"They're so cool," Sinead tells Amy quietly (and perhaps a touch enviously) as they leisurely pack their bags. "A lot more than I thought they'd be."

Amy doesn't even bother to dissect that comment- she gets it: they're not as elitist as Sinead thought they'd be, they're not snobby, they're not mean…

A new school can be hard, especially one like theirs. If one has the right allies… the right friends-

Well, it can make it all the more enjoyable, can't it?

And so in that moment, Amy decides that her spur-of-the-moment project is about to become something real.

(Not that she says any of that out loud).

"What do you have next, Sinead?" Amy asks instead.

Sinead fumbles with her bag before removing it and pulling out a laminated sheet of paper, and consults it. "Uh… Calc BC ."

"Oh, Ham and I have that too," Cara pipes up. "We can walk you there."

Sinead blinks, and Amy can tell she's not used to having people offer things like that. She looks at Amy, as if silently seeking her guidance, and Amy only offers her an encouraging smile.

Something in Amy's eyes must convey what she's been thinking, because suddenly, Sinead looks far less skittish than she's been this entire lunch, knowing that she has Amy Cahill's approval.

And for a moment, a gleam appears in her eye as her lips quirk upwards, as though Sinead knows something Amy does not, but before Amy can blink, it's gone, and Sinead is telling Cara "sure, let's go."

_Interesting._


	10. Never Go Gentle Into That Good Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one in which Isabel Vesper-Hollingsworth and Arthur Trent meet for the first time

She enters Windmere Hall with some trepidation- her great-uncle had called her late last night and asked- no, summoned- her to his ancestral estate to discuss some Vesper business that was too risky to discuss over phone.

She was on holiday from Oxford and it's not like she had anything better to do, so she had acquiesced.

"Ah, Isabel," her great-uncle calls from the head of the table in the formal dining room. Windmere Hall was built originally in the 15th century, and therefore still has the unfortunate distinction of still looking like the set of some low-budget film about knights and dragons and princesses in dining room is no different- it's dark, gloomy, and has an inordinately long table in the middle, where her uncle normally sits like a lonely feudal lord.

But he isn't alone today.

On his immediate right sits a younger man who, even at a glance, looks wholly out of place in this room. For one thing he's quite tanned for someone in England, and for another, the second he sees her, he grins at her in an overly-familiar manner, enough to show off a set of pearly-white teeth. Isabel internally cringes.

_American_ , she thinks, disgruntled.

Outwardly, she only pastes on a genial smile, striding to her uncle to greet him with the customary cheek-kisses, before looking expectantly between him and the man, who's staring at her with undisguised interest.

"Arthur," her uncles says to the other man, "may I introduce my late niece's daughter, Isabel Vesper-Hollingsworth. Isabel, my dear, this is Arthur Trent, a very promising recruit whom I am currently mentoring."

Isabel extends her hand for a perfunctory handshake, and he takes it.

"Arthur is to embark on his first solo mission for our cause," her uncle says significantly, his chest puffing out with more pride than the man in questions'.

_And that's very good and all_ , Isabel irritably thinks, but what is the purpose of _her_ summons?

So she asks sweetly, "and what can I do to assist, uncle?"

Arthur Trent's smile cannot get any more pronounced than it is at this point, but oddly enough, her uncle's demeanor suddenly shifts into something more awkward.

He moves a uncomfortably in his seat, unable to look her in the eye when he replies, "Erm, Arthur can tell you the details himself- I best be off. Good night!" He raises from his seat with little decorum or dignity, before practically running out of the room, leaving her alone with the ever-grinning American.

_Coward_.

"Hey, do you want to go to that little pub I saw on the way here?" Arthur asks her once her uncle has fled a significant distance. "No offense, but this place creeps me out. I can fill you in there."

Isabel looks at him, equal parts incredulous and considering.

"Fine."

* * *

The drive to the pub is bumpy (damn English backroads) and wet, and Isabel is actually _glad_ to be in this nondescript, grimy pub where the average patron looks like a farmer.

They settle down at the bar and order, and then Isabel cuts right to the chase.

"Why was my uncle embarrassed to even tell me what your mission was?"

Arthur chuckles. "I guess he didn't want to sound creepy if he had to tell you that I might have to… uh-" he scratches the back of his neck, probably trying to figure out the most delicate way to put this, "... pretend to be romantically interested in a member of the Cahill family to get some information for the Vespers."

Isabel is not impressed. "So when my uncle said you were a promising recruit, he meant your chief talent is whoring yourself out for information?" She asks with a well-practiced sneer.

"Hey, that's not all I'm good for," he protests, "I'm also pretty good at other stuff."

Yes, she's aware- Arthur Trent, doctoral candidate at MIT, very good at math, and (apparently) very good at being charming if he has been selected for the very prestigious position of seducing a high-ranking member of the Cahill family for intel.

(Arthur had prattled on about a variety of different subjects, including little titbits about himself, during the drive into little village Windmere Hall is on the outskirts of, and this is everything she had gathered in those twenty minutes.)

"Who is your target anyway?" Isabel asks.

He replies without any hesitation. "Hope Cahill."

_Well_.

"Hope Cahill?" Isabel raises her brows with some amusement, when he registers as subtle mockery on her part.

"What?" He says self-consciously. "Do you know her or something?"

"Enough," she shrugs. In truth, everything she knows about the enigmatic Cahill heiress is from brief glimpses combined with second-hand information (mostly from various Cahill friends and Vikram), but she's always been good at reading people and understanding them, far more than they often want her to be.

"I've read her file," Arthur says flippantly, and gestures to the bartender for a refill, "she seems like an easy enough target."

He was an amateur, that couldn't be more clear in the way he had broken the first rule of espionage: never underestimate the enemy, and never overestimate yourself.

"Please," Isabel snorts, "what skilled seduction would you pull off? Boring her to tears with multivariable calculus?"

"Read my file, did you?" He winks at her roguishly, and Isabel feels the sudden urge to strangle this impudent American.

"My uncle must have mentioned you to me earlier in passing," she lies indifferently, "and I put two and two together."

_Never underestimate the enemy_ \- He has done it once again, except this time, he's underestimated her, and her ability to listen to people, even when they hardly listen to themselves.

"Where will you meet her, anyway?" Isabel asks.

"There's a bar she goes to a lot, based on the recon your uncle's people have been conducting," Arthur explains. " A lot of expats go there, so it won't be that hard to pass myself off as one of them."

"And then what?"

"I dunno… win her over with my smooth moves?" He jokes.

Isabel allows herself to huff out loud this time, so that he feels chastened enough to ask meekly, "what do you think I should do?"

That's more like it.

"First," Isabel says slowly, "she's probably a sucker for old movies and romance novels and all that-"

"How would you know that?" He asks, amazed.

_It doesn't take a whole lot to amaze this man_ , Isabel thinks.

She decides to humor him with an explanation- this time. "She's the only daughter of an overbearing mother who, by all accounts, has sheltered her a great deal in terms of relationships. Girls like her always turn inwards and then to silly novels."

"You sound like you have some experience with that," he teases.

Isabel stiffens noticeably. "My mother," she practically spits out, "was as far from overbearing as one could get."

He looks at her with some curiosity, but much to her relief, he doesn't press any further about her sudden outburst.

(She dislikes that- the fact that she's technically indebted to him for this).

"I meant about liking romance novels," he instead says, barely missing a beat, allowing Isabel just enough time to gather her bearings.

"Right," she says. "Be charming without coming off as sleazy, attentive-"

"-like I am right now," he points out, and she scoffs.

" _Not_ like you are right now, because right now, it is not working."

"But what would I do first- how would I approach her?" Arthur asks, perhaps a touch desperate, and Isabel wonders just how much help this man really needs in order to seduce a woman.

"Say something intelligent first- catch her attention- before going more personal with the compliments," Isabel advises.

He quips,"so I shouldn't open with telling he that she has a killer body?"

_Ugh._

"Americans," Isabel pronounces, wrinkling her nose delicately, "are so crass."

He laughs- a booming sound that fills the pub with noise, and more than one patron looks up from their beer to see what all the fuss is about.

They must look quite strange together, Isabel realizes, him in jeans and a t-shirt, and her in Dior.

"So does she?" Isabel suddenly asks.

Arthur looks up from his drink. "Does she what?"

"Does she have a 'killer body'?" She repeats more out of morbid curiosity than anything else.

He smiles uncomfortably. "Well I wouldn't really know that, would I?"

"You can't pass judgement based on all those reconnaissance photographs you've apparently studied?"

_Amateur._

"Or maybe I don't think it's right to," he shoots back, his cheeks rapidly reddening.

_Well._

_He's_ a _gentleman_.

She feels an uncomfortable twinge at that thought, because how rare are those? Sure, she's met a duke or two, several lords, and even a few princes and sheikhs in Oxford, but true gentlemen are hard to come by, and it's strange that she should find one in this plainspoken American mathematics student.

"Right," Isabel says slowly, "moving on."

"What's next?" Arthur asks.

"Strategic touching," Isabel says primly, and he promptly bursts out laughing.

"I- I'm sorry!" He says, doubling over. "It's just, when you say things like that-" a fresh wave of laughter overtakes him, "-you can't expect me to take you seriously!"

"And you clearly can't get your mind out of the gutter," she retorts, and he stops laughing immediately.

"Come on," he says indignantly, "you can't _not_ mean that in somewhat of a sexual sense."

"But not blatantly… at least, not in the beginning," she says. "A lingering handshake, a brush against her arm, shoulders maybe-"

Suddenly, his warm hand envelops her own, and she looks up at him, slightly startled.

"Like this?" He asks, and Isabel is positive his voice has suddenly taken on a lower timbre, and his blue eyes gleam with something else that she can't quite place.

"Might as well practice," Isabel permits, telling herself that she won't allow this to go far anyway.

"She'll say something cute, or funny or whatever else," Isabel continues, "and look deeply into her eyes- yes, I suppose that works-"

He's looking at her just like she said he should, but it's different- her stomach coils tighter and she's almost sure it has nothing to do with the cheap beer-

-Suddenly, his other hand moves forward to tuck a loose tendril behind her ear, and Isabel inhales slightly, sharply.

"If you do anything more," she mutters, "I will not hesitate to break my bottle over your head."

His lips curl upwards.

"Come on," he murmurs, his heavy-lidded gaze landing on her lips, "don't you feel just a little tempted?"

"Not particularly."

To be fair, it's around 90% true.

"Why?"

_Impudent_ , Isabel thinks, even as he lets go of her and she gathers her belongings to leave.

"Because," she says before walking out the door, and for the first time that night, Arthur sees her eyes glinting with something sharp and dangerous, "I'm not Hope Cahill, and _never_ forget that."


	11. Debunked Part III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one in which we meet several new acquaintances and there is a lot of muttering

The idle rich of the New York City never need an excuse to throw a party, much less one that is celebrating the start of what Amy refers to as The Season.

(Sinead thought that ended in Victorian England, but that notion is quickly dispelled by Amy, who tells her of the endless social functions that happen between September and December- dinners, teas, dances, cotillion, and of course, the endless benefits and charity galas).

The first such occasion is a lavish fête to be thrown by Cara's mother to welcome everybody back after their vacation in the Hamptons or St. Barts.

The dress code is cocktail, which Sinead notices her newfound friends interpret rather liberally. Ian and Hamilton are wearing dress shirts and blazers ("#SperrySquad," Cara teases them), while Jake simply chooses to wear a nice button down. Jonah, on the other hand, is wearing a shirt and dark-wash jeans (the irony is that this probably costs more than half of Sinead's wardrobe combined).

Meanwhile, Cara looks like a model perpetually off duty- her idea of effort is leaving her hair down rather than trying it up in her usual messy bun, and shoving in some contacts- but she somehow manages to look unfairly good in a velvet Saint Laurent  _Le Smoking_ jacket and (despite her mother's protests) trousers.

Amy has opted for something more classic, and less likely to draw the ire of Debi Ann Pierce- a a burgundy dress with a high lace collar.

All of this contributes to Sinead feeling rather underdressed in a skirt and blouse she bought from Zara.

It's interesting to watch her newfound friends interact with the adults around them- most of the incidents are hardly noteworthy (just a lot of pained smiles as various parents ask about their futures), but there a few worth mentioning, for example:

"Good God," Ian mutters to Hamilton around midway through cocktails, "I think your father is coming here."

Sure enough, a large, impressively red man with a mild resemblance to Hamilton is advancing towards them.

Sinead watches as the entire group rearranges themselves as if they had rehearsed it: Amy sidles up to Hamilton who throws an arm around her shoulder, while Cara and Jake move to stand almost protectively on either side of Jonah (Cara serves as a buffer between Jonah and Hamilton). This leaves Ian and Sinead flanking Amy's other side, and Sinead looks on in bemusement.

"Hammie," his father booms to announce his presence to them, "you didn't tell me your pretty little girlfriend would be here!"

"Not my girlfriend, dad," Hamilton mutters, having gone several shades redder than usual in the past ten seconds.

Amy cringes as Eisenhower Holt loudly laughs and thumps his son, as well as her on the shoulder, and Sinead feels awkward and uncomfortable on her behalf.

Ian, noticing the disconcerted expression on her face, leans in and whispers, "His father's an army general- two star. I think he believes Don't Ask Don't Tell is still a law."

"And applies outside the army, from the look of it," Sinead notes, and Ian's lips curl slightly upwards.

Eisenhower thankfully doesn't linger too long, but Sinead notices that he makes a point not to speak to any of them except for Amy, Hamilton, and Cara.

"He doesn't approve of most of us," Ian tells her matter-of-factly, gesturing to Eisenhower's retreating back. "He was once talking about Saudi terrorists, and referred to them as 'my people'".

Sinead looks at him, aghast. "But you're not even Middle-Eastern, are you?" She turns to him for confirmation, but then hastily backtracks, "-Not that that's bad, or anything-"

"-Half-Indian," he informs her cheerfully, "of the subcontinental persuasion."

"And he doesn't like me, because my dad's kind of an intellectual," Jake speaks up, "and also very liberal."

"And I'm gay," Jonah adds helpfully.

Cara sighs. "And the worst part is, he  _likes_ my dad."

"Because that's the gauge for a good person," Amy quips, and the tension bursts as everyone laughs. They proceed to disperse for much needed food and alcohol.

The parental oddities don't stop there, however. Sinead had been watching a stick-thin woman with a blonde beehive hairdo scurry around like an over-enthusiastic mouse. She seemed to have mastered the art of smizing (most likely because her new botox injections left her unable to actually smile) and cheek-kissing without messing up her lipstick.

"Who's that?" Sinead finally asks Amy, unable to contain herself any longer.

"Cara's mom," Amy says, barely glancing at the woman in question.

"She seems... " Sinead trails off, and then lamely manages to find "enthusiastic" to be the least insulting choice of descriptor.

"Debi Ann likes to think of herself as New York's premiere socialite," Amy explains to Sinead.

"She 'likes to think' being the operative term here," Cara says under her breath, having sidled up to them with a glass of gin in each hand, neither of which she gives to anybody else.

"So I guess you don't want to follow in your mom's illustrious footsteps?" Sinead jokes.

Cara lets out a weak chuckle. "By this time next year, I'm going to be hanging out with either stoners in Berkeley, or tech geeks in Caltech- whatever annoys my mom more, and sends my dad on a rant about immoral leftists."

"I always thought you were more of the MIT kind," Jake says. "You know, geeky, but not-" he shudders- "California."

Sinead has quickly learned that New Yorkers have strong opinions what it comes to the west coast, and by "opinions", it means that there is only one opinion: it sucks.

Cara shrugs. "Anything to get away from dad."

Jake nods understandingly. "That's why I'm not even applying to Harvard. I want to get into Dartmouth."

Jake's dad, from what Sinead can make out, is an extremely liberal college professor who collects research awards and notable alumni the way most people here collect Pollocks.

"Can't deal with Boston anymore?" Cara nudges him.

"Nope," Jake says and gestures helplessly around them, "I can't deal with  _people_  anymore."

"In one year, I see myself in a resort in Cabo with this guy," Jonah says, magically appearing with food  _and_ Hamilton in tow.

"Already dropped out of college, have you?" Ian asks wryly, handing a glass of champagne to Amy.

"Pssshh who need college when you have a music career bought by your mom?" Jonah says waving an airy hand in Ian's general direction.

Sinead, still not used to casually-elitist and self-aware declamations, turns to Hamilton and questions, "is he serious?"

Hamilton rolls his eyes. "He actually  _can_ sing though- but a part of his brand is that his career was bought by mommy dearest, so don't wreck his vibe," he adds jokingly.

"So I guess starting from the bottom is out?" Sinead says drolly, which Jonah overhears and claps her on the back.

"Yup," he says cheerfully. "But you haven't told us where  _you_ see yourself in a year."

"Is it mandatory?"

Sinead notes that Amy is looking at her rather intently when Jonah presses, "come on, you don't have any escapist fantasies?"

"Nope- I don't think I can afford them," Sinead says in what she hopes is not too bitter of a tone.

Amy starts to say something, but suddenly, the room falls silent when the double doors open, and like a queen entering her throne room (despite this not even being her own party), Grace Cahill walks in.

Wait a second, Cahill?

"No way," Sinead says in a reverent whisper. She turns to Amy. " _That's_ your-"

"Yeah," Amy replies, her eyes trained grimly forward as Debi Ann and Pierce rush to welcome the entering figure with effusions of delight (although Pierce is visibly less enthusiastic). "That's my grandma."

Sinead suddenly understands where Amy's ability to command a room by merely walking into it comes from. Former Senator Grace Cahill of New York had had a illustrious career as a prosecutor, then a member of the House of Representatives, and then as a senator, going as far as to become the chairwoman of the Senate Judiciary Committee. She was steely, shrewd, brilliant and Sinead's first idol- on par with the likes of Ruth Bader Ginsburg and Gloria Steinem.

_And she's headed right here._

Sinead's stomach flip-flops as she desperately tries to smooth her already-wrinkling shirt, and tug her skirt down to cover a few more inches of her legs as the former Senator approaches.

"Cara, darling," Grace greets first, leaning in for the requisite cheek kisses- one on each cheek. "I heard about the coding club you started for children in the Bronx- what a good cause."

"Thanks Grace," Cara says modestly. "I'm glad I'm doing my part in helping kids here in the city."

"Anything to bolster college applications, right?" Amy jokes, and Cara giggles, however, Grace's steely gaze turns on Amy, and she says, "your dress is a little wrinkled there, Amy, dear. You should probably fix that."

Sinead watches how Amy's face falls, even as Grace's expression returns to normal and she greets each and every one of Amy's friends with genuine kindness and inquiries about school, extracurriculars, and their families.

She finally arrives at Sinead. Grace's grey-green gaze seems to penetrate her very being, and Sinead isn't sure if she should introduce herself, or wait for the senator to speak first.

Thankfully, Grace's expression melts into a guileless smile, and she extends a hand to Sinead. "And you must be the Sinead that Amy's been telling me so much about. It's very nice to meet you at last."

"She has?" Sinead asks weakly before remembering her manners and assuring Grace that the pleasure was all hers.

She then blurts out "I'm a huge fan!" and proceeds to blush furiously after.

"You are?" Grace asks with an amused twinkle in her eye.

"I read your autobiography just last year," Sinead expounds earnestly, "and I was so inspired by everything you had to go through in your early days in Washington- and that line in the epilogue about the next generation of glass ceiling-breakers? It gave me chills."

"Are you interested in politics, dear?" Grace asks kindly.

"Yes," Sinead beams.

"It's lovely to meet someone interested in going into the field-" at this, she side-eyes Amy, who keeps a painful smile on her face, "-after all, we need more women in politics."

"I couldn't agree more," Sinead says enthusiastically, "I've already applied to intern with Congressman Appleby and Congresswoman Hadad-"

"Oh, Congresswoman Hadad is a dear friend of mine. She has an excellent outreach program and you should have no problem getting in."

Sinead can only nod, and Grace changes the conversation.

"Now, I trust you ladies will all be making your debuts in Cotillion this year?" Grace looks between the three of them expectantly.

Cara and Amy (reluctantly) nod, and Sinead shakes her head. "I don't think I'm…" she struggles to find a polite way of saying "I don't have money or the pedigree" to a woman who has both in excess, and finally settles on "I don't think I'd be a good fit."

"Nonsense, dear," Grace waves her hand. "In fact, I'll gladly sponsor your debut myself. They don't just want the silver-spoon set anymore, you know. They want young ladies with accomplishments and goals-" at this, she looks at Amy pointedly once more, "-and someone who gives her time to charity and other worthy causes. You'd be a perfect fit."

Sinead thanks Amy's grandmother profusely and multiple times, and she graciously nods her head in acknowledgement before turning to Amy.

"Have you seen your brother?" Grace asks her, and Amy replies that she hasn't.

Grace sighs.

"Daniel-" she calls once, and Dan materializes seemingly out of nowhere ( _like he was summoned by magic_ , Sinead thinks in amusement), but does not look too enthused about it. "Did you find someone to escort to Cotillion?"

"No," Dan replies defiantly.

Amy had told Sinead about Dan being anti-establishment, anti-society, anti-The Man, you name it, and Sinead can already see traces of that in his outfit- jeans and a t-shirt- and in his response to Grace.

"Then it's settled," Grace announces, "you will be escorting Amy-"

"-Grandma!" Dan and Amy both whine in unison.

"-No buts," Grace says firmly but not unkindly. "I want both of you to make your proper debuts into society at the same time." She turns to Dan. "Everybody keeps asking me about you, you know. Just the other day, Mrs. Windham-Smythe-"

"-Who cares about this dumb debut thing?" Dan snorts, "It's not like it even matter anymore."

Sinead has to admit that Amy's brother has a point- paying thousands just to prace across a stage in front of New York's finest and courtesy is hardly what she'd call relevant, but she's not about to tell her new sponsor that.

"It does in this town, Daniel," Grace says pointedly. "Besides, my mother made her debut in this city, I did too,and your mo-" Grace abruptly stops speaking at the sight of the two ferocious glares on Amy and Dan's faces.

Suddenly, Sinead feels very awkward standing around what is no doubt a family conversation, but she doesn't move to leave.

"And what about Ian?" Amy asks after a few more moments of pained silence.

"Your boyfriend will always be there, dear," Grace says with barely a trace of sympathy in her voice, "I want you and your brother to do this together- for the family."

Amy, to Sinead's surprise, doesn't protest further, and Grace leaves to schmooze the crowd soon after that.

Dan stomps off in a huff,

"Maybe I could take Dan off your hands?" Sinead suggests, taking note of Amy's forlorn expression. "That way, you could go with Ian."

"I couldn't let you do that. Dan is a handful, and whatever Grace says goes, so... " she looks behind her with barely-concealed longing at her boyfriend, who is talking to Jake, "-I guess that's that."

Amy then brightens.

"But I can find  _you_  a date," she tells Sinead with renewed enthusiasm. "It'll be great." A calculating gleam appears in her eye.

"Don't go all  _Emma_ on me," Sinead cautions her, and Amy grins, throwing an arm around her shoulder.

"Don't worry," she tells Sinead, "I'll find an appropriately geeky boy who you can keep on his toes all night."

This time, it is Sinead who looks fleetingly behind her.


End file.
